Community is Key

You can't do it all alone, peoples.

This month’s Low Notes is a post of appreciation, rather than an essay containing lessons learned from the art of arting, clever adages and of course, dated Aaron Sorkin references.

I am not where I am today if it weren’t for community. Groups of people who share the same goals, ideals, dreams, values, and whatnot. As a musician, success is built upon hours spent in the practice room which are then counterbalanced with the time making music with others, either in small groups or large ensembles. That also includes the social time backstage and after the show.

Writers are notorious recluses who lock themselves away in their personal rent-controlled dungeons or hide among the myriad of other laptop citizens at a coffee house or library or a bar or at their kid’s swim meet or volleyball tournament, and write… or edit… or daydream. Yet, these dedicated and diligent creators also require a critique group, a community based on common interest and sometimes region, social media friends who like each other’s daily accountability posts, and…

You can’t do it all alone.

I have learned the best and most important lessons from interacting with others and not solely within the confines of a practice room or my poorly ventilated, sunlight-deprived basement office.

Here’s a few examples:

-The Indiana University School of Music Tuba Basement taught me that musicians of the same instrument that take the same auditions can still be devoted friends. It took me the longest time to look at other bass trombonists as genuine friend potential, much less as fellow humans.

-Numerous brass quintets, trombone quartets, and low brass orchestral excerpt sessions taught me the fine art of effective communication using words, body language, letting someone else lead (What do you mean I’m not supposed to lead from the third chair?), and most importantly, LISTENING!

-Writing critique groups taught me there is more than one way to Save a Cat and while I think my story is amazing, hearing my idea through someone else’s point of view might actually be better.

-My military career has taught me that SERVICE BEFORE SELF reaps greater rewards than Jay’s previous philosophy of “I can’t. I have a gig.”

-The #5amWritersClub has taught me that weirdos who wake up naturally at 3:30 am (Hi. That’s me. I’m the weirdo) are not alone in the universe so we get up and work on our craft while the rest of the world sleeps. My 5am peeps got me through the pandemic and I am eternally grateful for them.

Go touch some grass with another writer.

I recently attended an in-person writing retreat that not only helped direct me out of some issues with my current WIP, but brought me together with similar writers, some of which I only knew through a Zoom screen or a Discord handle. We spent five days in northeast Pennsylvania talking craft, learning new approaches to craft, examining prosody in our craft, problem solving our craft, laughing about craft, as well as hiking, tarot card reading, s’more making, and pickleball smashing… about craft. We affirmed or re-affirmed our identities as writers, opened the file, used the best words, and of course, we made it worse (for our protagonists, that is…)

How can you not be inspired by this view every morning at 5am?

Those of us who were used to quietly isolating ourselves from the world formed into an enthusiastic group. The less-confident became bolstered. The muddled found clarity. The lost found direction. The unseen felt seen.

Amy’s novel, chapter by chapter, as a visual guide.

When the internet-free weekend was over, the dozen of us shed tears of joy and appreciation, packed up our retreat goodies (pens, pencils, Post-its, creative talismans like stickers and fidget toys), loaded our cars with whatever leftover snacks we could stomach, and returned home from the magic of Camp Zeke armed with inspiration and renewed joy for our work.

Sadly, my reentry from Jupiter led me to an absolute shitbag of a week, on all fronts: professional, spiritual, personal, and thusly creative. It was as though all my gains were lost, and I was right back where I started prior to my departure. Had I even left for the retreat yet? I spent months anticipating departure and now it’s just a blip in the background? WTF, life???

Guess what… life is going to do its life thing, whether you want it to or not. It was the same let down as…

The audition was over.
The big recital was behind me.
The music festival was in the history books.

So… what now?

As I continue to recover from the crappy week that was which followed the glorious experience that really, REALLY was, I have needs for community again, and in some cases, in a bad, bad way. Does that mean I need to search for another in-person writing retreat to regenerate the magic of the moment? Geez, I hope not. That gets expensive, it puts tremendous pressure on that next retreat to capture the same magic as before, and is impractical, especially for my family.

Thankfully, I have notes upon notes from the weekend to consult. I have the memory of waking in the morning and shuffling into the lounge at 5am and seeing other writers awake and ready to work as we silently tinkered on our stuff. I have experienced actually being there, and thusly applying the lessons I learned to my own creative practice.

Work is still accomplished on our own, and that is not a bad thing. We continue to silo ourselves when the time to concentrate is required. Noise cancelling headphones, pin-drop silence, or the hum of a cafe is part of the process. No matter what or where we are, we end up once again, seated before a blank screen with an impatient and judgmental blinking cursor awaiting our genius creativity to begin a sentence that serves as the entry to the next story.

Even if you savor the silence, there is great power in community. Join a writing sprint so the others don’t feel alone. Play duets with someone, anyone. Showing up will help you, as well as help others, and I’ll bet all the money in my pockets* everyone will be grateful for it.

(* Had to get one Sorkin line in. If you don’t know it, check out “Seventeen People” from The West Wing.)

I’m not the first Heltzer to learn this lesson.

When my grandfather moved into a Jewish home for the aged, he performed the menschiest act I had ever heard. One of the daily activities were morning prayer sessions, and in Judaism, ten men are required for the prayers, or to form a minyan. Ten is considered the smallest number needed to form a representative “community” for prayer and worship. My grandfather was not a devout practicing Jew, but knowing the other men required the presence of at least ten, he would show up, and sit in the back of the room, doing his part to bring them closer to the magic number. Here’s the kicker, my grandfather was hard of hearing as long as I could remember. I grew up thinking we were supposed to yell to our grandparents. Didn’t matter. He couldn’t hear a thing. So when he showed up to create a minyan, he didn’t open a prayer book. He just showed up. That’s how you do it. You just show up.

Because it turns out, being part of a community isn’t just about serving your needs, it serves the needs of others. Remember that SERVICE BEFORE SELF thing I mentioned earlier? Being part of a gathering fills numerous cups, not only yours. Joining a community makes us all better at what we do. We learn, we live, we grow, and, we keep fucking writing.